


the topography of thin skin

by kedda



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, NEL MIO LETTOOOOO, Phone Calls, between clips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-16 15:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedda/pseuds/kedda
Summary: How can I hold on to this?





	the topography of thin skin

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write from Niccolò’s POV and also nel mio letto kind of made my brain melt.

The sweet slope of Martino’s neck is warm under Niccolò’s palm, and his breath catches when he realizes that he can feel the distant beat of Martino’s steady heart in his fingers.   _This is what it means to hold something precious.  This is what it feels like_.  These two thoughts repeat endlessly as something bigger than hope and fear surges through him.  Every moment since the pool has felt unprecedented, impossible yet destined. This is the boy who is always looking back, whose gaze is tantamount to a caress, whose self assurance translates to laughter and patience, who was ready and waiting for Niccolò to cross the space between mouths.  Niccolò didn’t know how it would happen, only that he wanted to find a place just for them and that the pool nearby would be deserted, private. They rode with God at their backs, and in the end it was easier than breathing; the water closed over his head and even through chlorine-blurred eyes he could see Martino’s smile, and like a moth to flame he went.

The thin skin just below Martino’s jawbone is soft over Niccolò’s knuckles and he remembers the weight of Martino’s head in his hand, how natural it was to pull him closer with his hand nestled there.  Unable to resist, he sweeps his thumb over the spot and files its placement away for use later. The movement of Martino’s eyes fluttering draws his attention up, but his eyes remain closed as he continues to breathe warm air against Niccolò’s forehead.  Yes; Martino had been waiting too. It had begun with the simple desire to be close, following him to Radio Osvaldo and then to the booth itself.  On some level he had known from the beginning what this was and could be, but he did not account for Marti’s boldness in matching him. The boy who would look away when Niccolò caught him staring and had seemed so scared when Niccolò had crossed paths with his friends seems to have torn down all his walls in a single night without hesitation.  To be chosen so eagerly and unabashedly was overwhelming; but even more terrifying is the knowledge that there is already a lot he would be willing to give to earn that trust. The easy curl of Martino’s hand lies next to Niccolò’s face and he adjusts so that his cheek rests against it. It’s not the same as yesterday under the gentle weight of Marti’s eyes when they were both awake and dreaming, but the simple fact of the contact helps him believe that it’s all real.

The road between the pool and the bed is a heady blur in his memory but he tries to give it detail and definition.  They had ridden off in a flurry of limbs and soaked fabric, the heat from Martino’s arms behind him enough to keep the cold at bay.  It was all he could do to keep the bike upright; thinking back on it now, he could not say exactly how they had made it home. At one point Martino had pinched his side and they’d stopped the bike in an alley some streets away.  When he’d turned around Martino was much closer, hot breath settling in a cloud around their heads. He must have seen something in Niccolò’s face because he’d grinned and crowded him up against the wall and kissed him slow. _I would have kissed you like this last week_ he’d said, breathless against Niccolò’s lips, and Niccolò had to haul him in again, cheeks hurting with a smile that couldn’t seem to fade.  Hold on to this and everything else, something small and fierce within him urges now. Because it is important, what we have here, what we have together and it is so hard to hold on to good things.  

How long, after all, could they live in the vacuum of their dream?  The boundaries of the bed had seemed limitless only yesterday, the pool its own universe the day before that.  Now feeble morning light filters through the cold face of the window to reveal the pale shapes of the room: the ledge of his bookshelf, the hood of the bedside lamp, the curve of the covers over Martino’s hip.  The world that Niccolò is shielding Martino from will enter if he doesn’t figure out a way to beat it back. As the familiar fear creeps over him he cradles Martino’s hand to his face.

He remembers turning his phone off after receiving Maddi's call yesterday.  He’d known, distantly, that it would only make things more difficult but somehow he’d been unable to imagine a tomorrow past the bliss of today.  Now, of course, it is tomorrow, and yesterday is already beginning to feel less and less substantial in his hands. With a quick glance up into Marti’s sleeping face he rises quietly from the bed and fishes his phone out of his trouser pocket on the floor before padding out to the kitchen.  Taking a quick breath he counts to three and holds down the _end call_ key to boot up.  Several seconds pass before the phone begins to convulse, buzzing again and again and again for a straight minute before falling silent.  After waiting a beat to be sure that it was over, he checks his call history.

Twenty nine calls and messages more than twice that.  His stomach drops, even though he knew what to expect.   _Shit_.  Reluctantly, he clicks to see who called him last (this morning, at 5:58), and, holding his breath, he rings his mother.

She picks up before it gets to the second ring.

“ _Niccolò?_ ”  Her voice is sharp with attention, wary.

“Yes, it’s me Mama.”  He hears her sigh and he has to close his eyes.

“ _What is going on, where are you right now?  Maddalena called me last night asking whether we knew where you were._ ”

“I’m at home.”

“ _Niccolò._ ”

“I swear I’m home. Here, listen,” he brings the phone up to the microwave and presses random numbers, eliciting a series of familiar electronic beeps.   He brings the phone back to his ear but his mother is already talking.

“– _I’m not sure what is going on between you two, but you do understand that we are concerned?  You cannot drop off the face of the earth and expect everything to be alright._ ”

He grits his teeth but waits for her to continue.

“ _Are you okay Nico?_ ”

“I’m fine.  Just tired.”  She hums softly and he knows she doesn’t fully believe him.

“ _Alright. We’ll figure something out.  Please call Maddalena, that poor girl is going out of her mind looking for you._ ”

“I will.”

“ _Once you call her I want you to call me back.  Promise me that you will_.”

“I promise.”

“ _Okay, passerotto.  We understand that it’s hard, but please try to remember that we’re on your side.  Alright? I love you._ ”  She says it as if she were reminding him and he feels the pressure build behind his sternum.

“Love you.”  He is exhausted.

“ _Alright, love.  Talk to you soon.  Ciao_ .”  She hangs up and he stands there holding the phone for uncountable minutes.  Guilt is usually the dominant emotion he feels when he talks with his parents, frustration a close second.  The pressure of her expectations, that for all she knew he could have done something ‘crazy’ again and gotten hurt, or hurt someone, is enough to sap any energy he had when the conversation began.   And, he reminds himself, when Maddalena calls her out of the blue like that rarely is it to tell her anything good. _This is good_ he wants to insist, but this good thing was not without its casualties—it would also hurt Madda, which lately, had become something of a routine.  He sighs and turns his phone over in his hands. His mind goes to Marti in the other room and he feels his heart twist in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do.  He shivers in the early morning chill of the kitchen and tries to rub warmth into his arms. His phone is heavy in his hand.

“ _Where the fuck have you been_ ,” is the first thing Maddi says when she picks up.

“I’ve been at home.  I just,” he casts around the room helplessly for an answer, “stayed in, and my phone died.”  She sighs and he hates it.

“ _We’ve talked about this Niccolò, you have a phone so everybody can stay on the same page.  So I don’t come back from the bathroom to see that you’ve disappeared with Emma’s boyfriend, and then run around all night trying to suss out where you could have gone without a single word from you.  So your parents don’t worry. So that you’re safe._ ”

“He’s not her boyfriend.”

“ _What does that have to do with anything?  Where did you two go? What happened?_ ”

“I just,” he sighs, his throat closing up, “fuck, Maddi, I just wanted to go home.  I was tired, and in a bad mood, and I needed to go home.” He thinks of warm skin, of coffee grounds, and feels the truth of this statement.

“ _You’re saying that when I came by you just didn’t open the door for me?  Or—you know what, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make this about me. I_ ,” and she breaks off.  Her side of the line is quiet for several seconds.

“Maddi?  Are you there?”

“ _Yes, yes I’m here.  I just don’t know what to say.  I was scared. I don’t mean to take it out on you.  Are you okay?_ ”

“Yes,” he says, feeling frustration bubble to the surface, “aside from the fact that you guys always make me feel like I’m a bomb waiting to go off.”

“ _You know that it’s not like that._ ”

“Well that’s how it feels.”

“ _I’m sorry if that’s the way I come off.  I just really want you to be alright._ ”

“I’ll never _be_ alright, Madda.  You of all people should know that.”  A little ant is pushing a crumb along the grout in the floor.  Its purpose is simple and natural, something it shares with its comrades in the colony.

“ _Will you please try to understand that I love you?  That I genuinely want to be here for you? Sometimes you think I mean all these awful things, when all I want to do is help._ ”

“I know, I know,” his heart is full of lead, “ I’m sorry, Madda  I didn’t mean...” he trails off.

“ _Hm._ ”  Inexplicably he knows that she’s already forgiven him, which makes him want to scream and hold her at the same time.  He rubs at a spot on the counter instead.

“ _Anyway, are you still at your house?  Can I come over?_ ”

“Oh, no, no” he says hastily, “how about we go out and grab a coffee?”  As he tries to figure out a way to manage the separation of his two lives he feels a stab of guilt and briefly wonders when this will all inevitably come crashing down.

“ _Of course_ ,” Maddi says and he can hear the  smile in her voice. “ _Ah, but have you called your parents?  It sounded like they were planning something._ ”

He frowns.  “Um, yes, but my mother didn’t mention anything.”

“ _Oh.  Well you might want to pack a bag._ ”

“Why?”

“ _Because I think we’re going out to Umbria, to meet your parents there._ ”

“Right.”

“ _I don’t know.  Maybe things have changed.  That was what they were thinking when we spoke yesterday._ ”

“Great.”

He hears her sigh again.  “ _Okay.  Well. Let me know whatever you decide._ ”

“Okay.  Ciao.”

“ _Ciao, Colino_.”

 

When he returns to his room he lingers in the doorway, chest tight.   _We bought your ticket for 9:30 from Termini_ , his mother had said.   _Three days_ he thinks, and feels like he’s breaking a promise.

Martino has shifted onto his back in Niccolò’s absence, hand now wedged under Niccolò’s pillow, and he is struck again by fate’s uncanny aim.  How had they found each other? He lets himself briefly skim his memories of the year things fell apart, how trapped he felt, how alone. Watching the subtle rise and fall of Marti’s chest he remembers how carefree yesterday had been, outside of time and just for them.  It was, in some ways, as if his wish had come true. The world outside hadn’t caught up yet with the world they had carved out for themselves, a world just for two. _Just so you know, I’m in charge of the kitchen tonight.  Is that right? Yes, I’m sorry, that’s just the way it has to be—there was an incident regarding the prior chef, I’m sure you understand.  Oh, yes, of course. But alas, I need a sous chef. Do you happen to know of any good ones? Well, signor, as it happens, I have been told that I am an excellent assistant.  Oh, is that so? What are your credentials? My credentials? Why don’t you take a look for yourself._  Everything he throws at Marti, Marti takes and hurls right back.  When Niccolò had rolled out of bed to see what he’d do Marti had followed him without hesitation and they had collapsed to the floor laughing.  They kissed for the first time less than 36 hours ago, he realizes, and falling deeper already feels inevitable.

That’s when it occurs to him.  He doesn’t know if Marti will pick up on it, but either way he means to make a sign to whatever forces that be that thrust them together in the first place that they finally did something right.  He crouches next to his desk and, as quietly as possible, eases open the bottom drawer where he’s crammed the majority of his loose craft supplies. He has to dig through some rolls of twine and several hopelessly tangled skeins before finding a tidy ball of blood-red yarn.  He snags a loose piece of paper from his desk and folds it into quadrants. He moves to the kitchen to rip them and, as quickly as he can manage, begins to write.

 

_L’ho fatto ho liberato un virus letale nella notte siamo tutti morti! Sei l’ultimo uomo sulla terra..._

_I’ve done it I’ve let loose a fatal virus in the night and now we’re all dead!  You are the last man on earth..._

**Author's Note:**

> after the clip i wanted to write about the easy tenderness between them, how natural it was to fall so deep so fast, but also the uncertainty and insecurity that still lingers _because_ it was so fast, because Nico has a gf, because of things Nico feels like he can't tell Marti, because of things that Marti feels like he can't tell anybody. or something. i cannot tell you how many times i have uttered 'i'm fucking dead' since thursday.
> 
> ((also, i had niccolò's mom use the endearment _passerotto_ but idk if that's something that a mother would call her grown son—if someone would let me know i'd be v grateful!))


End file.
